


Voyeur

by SlippinMickeys



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, MSR, One Shot, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24254971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlippinMickeys/pseuds/SlippinMickeys
Summary: The person who was assigned to run surveillance on the basement office of the Hoover Building was a man with the unlikely name of Ichabod Weaver.
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 26
Kudos: 113





	Voyeur

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to admiralty for the beta!

The person who was assigned to run surveillance on the basement office of the Hoover Building was a man with the unlikely name of Ichabod Weaver. 

Ichabod had been previously employed in wetwork but had been demoted after a collosal fuck-up, which had been Percy-Fucknut-Ryan’s fault, but Ichabod was in charge of his own operations and ultimately took responsibility. Running surveillance on the X-Files project was a punishment, pure and simple. 

“If you happen to kill the wrong person down  _ there _ ,” his employer had said to him initially, blowing a plume of smoke into Ichabod’s face, “it would take care of several of my problems.”

Anything would have been preferable to the drudgery of listening, day after day, to the insane theories of Fox William Mulder ( _ Subject 240629) _ and his skeptical lady partner (one Dana Katherine Scully,  _ Subject 241204 _ ). They were intelligent (pretentious), talented (annoying), and honorable to a fault; the kind of people who would point out to a waitress if she hadn’t charged them enough for dinner. It was enough to make a guy puke. Ichabod would have happily put his old skills to work on  _ himself _ to escape the tedium of his assignment, but he had two years left on his contract and enough savings in the bank to live out the rest of his days on an island somewhere near the equator. If he didn’t die from boredom down  _ here _ , that meant he also wouldn’t die of it while lounging in a hammock slung between two palm trees. 

Ichabod mostly ran audio surveillance, but there was video too, if anything got interesting. He mostly used that when Mulder or Scully was out of the office leaving the other alone. Mulder would inevitably watch porn, which Ichabod could see if he adjusted the camera just-so, and Scully would take the opportunity when Mulder stepped out, to reach into her bra for one reason or another, or adjust her pantyhose or stretch her long, elegant neck. It was the best he would ever get from an uptight, conservative broad like Scully, and Ichabod was a guy who would always take what he could get. 

When he first started the gig, he thought it was fairly obvious that the two agents were fucking. With Mulder’s constant proximity to Scully’s tight little ass and round plump mouth, Ichabod could hardly blame the guy--but they never did anything untoward in the office aside from light flirting and the occassional glancing sexual innuendo, and after nine months Ichabod decided that in actuality, they  _ weren’t _ fucking each other, but that they obviously wanted to. God, what idiots. If Ichabod had learned anything in life, it was that life itself was too damn short.

They had been out of the office for a week and a half out in the field -- some other poor shmuck’s problem -- and Ichabod hadn’t even bothered coming in the last three days. They were back in their office today and had beaten him to work, which he discovered when he set down his coffee and flipped on the speakers to find the two agents and their boss, the stick-up-his-ass AD, in the middle of a conversation. 

“--surprised you were able to get a confession, Agent Scully, the local PD had interrogated the suspect on four separate occasions and never got enough to justify a warrant.”

“Agent Mulder should get the credit for this one, sir,” Scully said, standing -- judging from the sound of her voice -- on the other side of the room, “it was his idea to use the interrogation technique that garnered the confession.”

“Well,” Mulder said, his voice casually modest, “we were all ears and he was all mouth.”

“Nevertheless, it was a job well done,” Skinner said. “Can I expect your report on my desk by Friday?” 

He must have gotten a nonverbal confirmation, because the next thing Ichabod heard was the office door closing and the sound of the assistant director’s footsteps fading away to nothing. 

“You didn’t have to do that, Scully,” Mulder said, after a brief minute of quiet. 

“Do what?” she asked on a shuffle of papers. 

“Give me all the credit,” Mulder said, “you know I wouldn’t have gotten a confession from the guy if he hadn’t been so hot for you that he didn’t even notice when he confessed to the crime.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mulder,” Scully said, in a tone that it made it obvious to both Mulder and Ichabod that she most assuredly did.

“The guy had a pretty severe priapic condition when you stood him up and slapped on the cuffs, or don’t you remember the thing practically brushing your arm when I was Mirandizing him?” Mulder said, his tone playful. 

After a moment, Scully rose to the bait, answering in just as playful a way -- something that grabbed Ichabod’s attention, because it was something she’d never, ever done before. 

“The genitalia of the male of our species is a complicated system of hydraulics, Mulder. His  _ priapic condition _ as you call it, could have been caused by any number of stimuli, be it sexual or otherwise.”

Ichabod was certain that if he turned on the video right now, he and Mulder would be wearing the same impressed/amused reaction. 

“Otherwise?” Mulder’s voice was low.

“You pumped him full of cola, Mulder,” she said, and Ichabod could hear the smile in her voice, “maybe he just really had to pee.”

“As the owner of ‘a complicated system of hydraulics,’ and a person who spends hours a week in confined spaces with you, I can assure you, Agent Scully... he didn’t have to pee.”

Ichabod leaned back in his chair and began clicking a ballpoint pen. The tension in that office was so high it was leaking into his cramped surveillance room through the wires that fed its sound.

“And trust me,” Mulder’s voice came so quietly that Ichabod had to turn up the volume on his speaker, “when the hydraulics kick in, it doesn’t feel all that complicated.”

There was a muffled sound of footsteps, a mumble he couldn’t make out and then the quiet wisps of a sound it took Ichabod a minute to identify as the rustle of clothing, and he went flying in his office chair across the room and to the video monitor that he hadn’t turned on in weeks. 

It took several long seconds for the screen to flash to life and another few for Ichabod to jostle the joystick that controlled the camera until he brought the two agents into the center of his screen, as close together as he had ever seen them, inches apart but not touching. Mulder was leaning down into Scully’s space and she was looking up at him intensely, her hands at her side, fingers clenching open and closed as if she were trying to make a decision. 

Mulder brought his hands up slowly to her face, holding it gently, his thumbs rubbing along the seam of her plump, ruby lower lip. 

“Awww, he’s gonna do it,” Ichabod said to the empty room, then, as if the people on the screen could hear him, said, “Do it, Mulder.  _ Do it _ .”

As if in answer, Mulder leaned slowly down and brushed his lips lightly across Scully’s, and both Ichabod and Mulder seemed prepared for the inevitable slap. Instead, Scully stepped in even closer, the tips of her shoes stepping on the tops of Mulder’s own and pulled him down into a kiss that started sweetly, but turned passionate in matter of moments. 

One of Mulder’s hands stayed on her face, but the other arm snaked around her waist, his hand grabbing hot handfuls of her tight ass, and Ichabod had to bite a knuckle in jealousy. 

He could hear a tight female moan and then the sound of desperate pants and huffed breaths, followed by a cacophonous waterfalling thud as a stack of files fell off the desk as Mulder pushed Scully into it -- the sounds all a half second out of sync from the video screen before him.

Ichabod saw Mulder pump his hips against Scully once and fumble his hands at her shirt, pulling it out of the waist of her skirt. Scully took the moment to run her hands up over his shoulders, cleaving the suit coat from his back so that it pooled to the floor at their feet. Mulder’s hand was up and under her shirt in a flash, and Scully threw her head back from where she sat on the desk, the column of her throat almost white in the dim light of the basement.

Mulder’s mouth was at her neck an instant later, and Ichabod was impressed with his dexterity, his mouth working at his partner’s throat even as one hand was filled to bursting with her ass and the other was working her breasts, and all Ichabod could hear were her moans and a roaring of blood in his own ears. 

When Scully reached for Mulder’s fly, he almost reached for his own, but then stopped as Scully did, who put a hand up to Mulder’s chest, where she wrapped his tie around her hand once and leaned her forehead against his heaving chest.

“Not…” she struggled to catch her breath, “Not here.”

“ _ Yes here _ ,” Ichabod said to the screen, willing the agents to keep going, his thumb continuing to click the pen, in and out, in and out, faster and faster.

“Scuh-” Mulder started to say, one hand reaching down to lift her chin until she was looking him in the eye.

“Not like this,” she said to him, her eyes searching his, “I want it to be right, I want you to-” 

“To what?” Mulder whispered, then touched the tip of her nose with the gentlest of kisses. 

Her head fell downward again, her hair falling like curtains to block what Ichabod could see of her face. 

Mulder then whispered something Ichabod couldn’t make out. She looked back up at Mulder, her face as yearning and bright as any classic Hollywood starlet. She pushed herself off the desk and pulled herself up to her full height, then pulled on Mulder’s tie, bringing his face slowly down to her own. She gave him a firm, full kiss, her tongue invading his mouth once, quickly.

“I love you too,” she said earnestly, and Ichabod felt something in his chest loosen and fly free.

“Come to me,” she said quietly, and Mulder’s eyes never once left hers, his hands holding her tightly to him, “tonight.”

Mulder nodded once firmly, and then reluctantly released her. He took one step back. 

“Tonight,” he said, his voice raw and needy.

Scully reached up with a hand and ran it gently through his hair once, then let her hand fall. She stepped away from her partner. 

Ichabod stared at the screen before him as both agents stepped out of frame, the basement office quiet but for the dull background hum of desktop towers, the quiet buzz of monitors and various investigative equipment. He released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

After a few moments of introspection, Ichabod looked at the video recording device in front of him for a full minute and then on an impulse, rewound it quickly and pressed the “erase” button. Then he pushed back from the desk, loosened his tie and made for the door. Ichabod needed some air. 

  
  
  
  



End file.
